Embers Of A Hero
by SignsOfSun
Summary: Post In My Time Of Dying. Dean and Sam are both searching, but are they searching for the same thing.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Embers Of A Hero

Author: Signs of Sun

Spoilers: In My Time of Dying.

Note: This might be the shortest fic chapter post I've ever made. Anyway, just the opener and curious if it sounded interesting. I have some work done towards the other fic I had planned on posting next, but this idea came to me and seriously intrigued me. So I'll have to pick which one first since time is an issue. Hunter's Crossing is for the most part done, just needs polishing as I go along posting so I wanted to dig in to the next fic a bit.

Any thoughts on the opening of this one would be appreciated. I have gathered thoughts on the other one I was dabbling on. But I'm writing this one if there's any interest at all. So please let me know. Much appreciated.

And I'll shut up now.

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_Embers Of A Hero_

_Embers dance in the wind, as if they have wings, as if they can fly. They are miniature torches glowing intensely, burrowing holes into the blackest of night skies. Their gathered troops swirl around the fabric, the deeply familiar and unique costume, once worn by a heroic soul. The fabric, the flesh, this now hollow shell will dwindle into ash, the fine dust of a life once tenant there._

_The embers, like guardian light, carry the final traces of essence off to a place I can not follow. _

The words float effortlessly in my mind and travel down, sinking into my heart. They come to me so vividly that I must have read them painted out in black ink in a book somewhere along the way. The words can not be mine. I do not own them. I am not their creator. I'm not a crafter of portraits brought to life through the weaving of words. I'm just a man, a hunter of evil, a brother, a son left behind by his father.

This is what he would have told me to do if we had ever verbalized it. But words weren't necessary, not for this, and not between us. I stood at his side many a time while flames ate away at a body that no longer housed the essence of the person once resident there. And on each and every one of those nights the instruction was there in his eyes.

_When I go you'll have to burn the body. I'm sorry, but it needs to be done. I know you know and will do as I ask._

But doing what he asked, lighting the fire that roars in front of me now, was not the hard thing.

The hard thing is living without him.

Sam is at my side, invasively close and far too distant all at once.

Only one sensation rivals the tortuous sadness gnawing away at the pit of my stomach and that I am ashamed to confess is fear. I'm terrified that when the flames die down and that last ember journeys off into the night I'll be torn in two, one part of me unable to stay to bare witness a single second longer, the other unable to leave because leaving means an ending of the chapter of my life that included Dad.

Sammy has lost the battle to reign in the tears. He is silent, but he swipes at his eyes with his sleeve. I am paralyzed, physically unable, to give him the words I long so desperately to say to easy his heartbreak. The words that whisper inside my heart to him, _Sammy it'll be okay_. The words will not pass over my now slightly parted lips. They won't depart because they are a goddamn lie.

This will never-_ever_-be okay.

The wind has kicked up and with it the flames lap taller toward the sky. Time is now both my enemy and my friend. Torture to stand here, agonizing second after agonizing second, as flames steal the last tangible connection with my father from me. Once the fire burns itself out the physical thread is broken forever. And at the same time fire is very much a living breathing thing and burns long and intense before the last ember is extinguished. It is buying me time before…

I have to walk away.

My dad left me a message, one whispered to me and me alone. Most of it is something I can't even grasp a hold of yet. But there was one little piece that guides me where to go when I can manage to carry myself away from here.

At the tail end of those hushed words in my father's voice he left me with a message, a direction.

Three letters and six digits.

The location and combination of a post office box.

_To Be Continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

Title: _Embers Of A Hero _

Authors: Signs of Sun

Spoilers: In My Time of Dying.

Note: I was going to wait a few more days before I posted the next chapter, but you guys were so incredibly generous with your reviews that I decided to show my appreciation with the next chapter a little sooner than planned.

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_Embers Of A Hero II_

_Damaged._

Crumbled scarred metal is the remains of the Impala. My gaze frantically searches the wreckage before me for just one piece that is not destroyed upon repair. But all I see is a piece of me crushed into oblivion. There must be something, some part not held together so fragilely as the rest. Something still intact, strong, and untainted. I just need one single uninjured piece to deliver me some hope, just one fine thread of hope to fuel me on. Or is that too much to ask?

_Damaged, torn, and abandoned._

That's the reality. That's what I'm left to work with.

This is the first time I've seen her since the…well, since that night.

I have to find something. It has to be there. The trick is finding it underneath the contorted knot of metal in front of me.

Sam tried to prepare me. He did. I took his words all together too lightly. My memory only serves up tiny shreds of the moments before the impact. My mind too foggy with blood loss I guess. My consciousness too fragmented over those minutes to grasp hold of the energy to do anything more than watch on.

I don't remember the crash.

And Sammy tends to over dramatize things just a bit. So I took his assessment of her condition with a standard buffer zone.

The expert and doubtful look in Bobby's eyes was what sent my imagination racing off to horrifying places. He glanced at me right before Sam and I headed across the yard. With each image conjured up by my imagination my footsteps grew faster, each stride more urgent. Soon I had overtaken my brother's lingering stride. I could tell he didn't want me to see it. But prolonging it wasn't going to change anything. Sammy has played that card too many times.

"You don't even know where it is!" his voice had called out into the air at my back. It echoed off the faint grayness of dawn and I only heard it as a ricochet off the piles of neglected debris surrounding me.

But I did know, somehow.

And suddenly there she was

_Damaged._

_Crippled._

_And empty._

_A casualty._

And in this instant I am connected to her more deeply than ever before. The Impala could be me if I let my emotions run free. Every fraction of every inch inside me feels like I've been plowed into by a semi, the impact fast, hard, and out of the blue.

I _hate_ feeling this way.

I have to save her.

It's the last shred of hope to save myself, to save myself from insanity. And I have to hurry because I'm not sure I can hold it together too much longer.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"Why? You weren't drivin' that semi."

"I just know how much this car means to you."

"Yeah, well, this is war and there are …casualties in war."

Sam doesn't respond, just shift uncomfortably. The air between us is taunt and I know damn well he wants to say something. Something even more uncomfortable than this silence. And if he says it I might not be able to keep my fist from slamming into his face.

"Dean, I….uh…just…"

_I beg you, Sam, please don't do this. _The words go no further than the tip of my tongue, but he seems to hear them loud and clear.

"It's been a long night. I think I, uh…I'm going to hit the hay."

_Long night. _Now there's an understatement.

We illegally acquired the body of our father, burned him into ash, and now here I stand staring at the twisted hunk of metal that used to be the Impala.

"Yeah, long night," is all I say quietly. A few excruciatingly long seconds later I hear the dirt crunching under his reluctant feet as he walks away. He must have of heard my other unspoken demand-to be left the hell alone right now.

His footfalls diminish into a distance and soon they have disappeared completely. I finally take in a deep breath and release it. _Now or never. _I walk forward, quickly closing the gap between me and the side of the car. I reach my fingertips out in front of me and skim them over the dented in metal of the front passenger side door. It is not smooth and comforting like it used to be. Instead it's scratchy and uneven, uncomfortable and heartbreaking to the touch.

But another surprising and powerful sensation comes in its wake, determination. I can fix her. It might take every waking minute, but god help me I'm going to get this car back on the road again.

_Thank you, Bobby and Sammy, for not giving her up for gone._

_Actually thank you Sammy. Bobby's true opinion was written in his eyes. They revealed he thought that the car was a lost cause._

_Thanks Sammy for not giving up on this one._

I move slowly towards the back of the car, surveying the details as I go. The passenger side doors need to be rebuilt from scratch. Same for the back right tire well. The side panels are demolished, sinking in the knowledge of just how great a force struck there. The trunk will be a bitch to reshape. And every window will need new glass because there isn't a single one left intact. The drivers side will be easier, mostly just an afterthought. The drivers door was ripped away, but definitely re-attachable. The dashboard is cracked and shifted oddly, like it has a fault line running through it, and will take some time and cursing to reconstruct. Leaning down to peer inside relief rolls through me as I see the radio and cassette deck seem to have come through okay. The speaker near where…the speaker on the front right is bent awkwardly, bulging in towards the interior of the car. Maybe I'll just tear them both out and start over with the sound.

I lower my aching body to kneel on the ground. Bracing one palm in the dirt I lean down and take in the undercarriage of the Impala. Again the drivers side faired so much better, the other side taking most of the impact. The worst of it is the exhaust system which is, well, barely identifiable. It's a mute point though since all of it will need to be removed anyway.

This is going to take weeks, scraped up hands, aching muscles, and every repair skill I have.

I sit down on the cold earth, my back to the car, and try to remember how to breath. The anger welling up is gaining a strangle hold over every fiber of me.

I lean my head back, resting it against the front tire.

Over the piles of junked out cars the sky has lightened to a warmer gray. It illuminates the carnage of the road lain out before me, rows and rows of broken and hollowed out shells.

_I feel like I belong here, fucked up and just barely holding it together._

"How am I supposed to do this?" I whisper, uncertain whether it is to myself, the car, the sky, or something else. And I'm not referring to just the car though. How am I supposed to do this, _all of this_?

I am truly alone in this. There is no one I can trust completely with what I carry.

_I need to repair the Impala_.

_I need to look out for Sammy._

_I need to hunt down that evil son of a bitch and…_

That last one may never happen now.

I'd never tell Sam that and I'm ashamed I even thought it myself, but it's there just the same.

The Colt is gone.

And so is the one person I know could have found another way.

He was counting on me.

"_Don't be afraid, Dean."_

The words taunt me endlessly.

It's too late. I've already failed him, because I am. Maybe not of what he was really getting at, but of other loathed unwanted things. Like this, like sitting here in the dirt doing nothing. I hate myself for that, for being so pathetic because I can't even do something, anything, about all this.

He was always there for direction. Even after he left and Sam and I set out after him. I at least knew he was out there somewhere, to be found, and talked to.

I scramble to my feet and without looking back I march through the junkyard, weaving my way in the direction of Bobby's house.

_There's work to do._

"Morning'!" Bobby greets me as I slip through the back door into the kitchen. He is at the stove, tending to scrambled eggs.

"Hey! You're up early?"

"Never went to bed. Didn't see the point. Didn't get back til late. And the two of you didn't roll in here until almost, what, four in the morning."

"Yeah, somethin' like that."

"Eggs?" he offers without stealing his glance from the skillet.

"Sounds good!" I reply and slump into the nearest chair at the table. After a few beats of silence I faintly recall the concept of manners.

"Hey Bobby?"

"Yeah?" he responds, turning his gaze to me.

"Thanks, you know, for taking care of stuff. Hauling the Impala . And letting us hold up here for a while."

"Least I can do."

"Why do you say that?"

"Your Dad and I had sort of a barter system going on. A job for a job or a job for information. Somewhere in there I think I ended up owing a couple."

Clearing my throat quietly gives me enough of a window to tug out something to say.

"How those eggs comin'? Or did you need me to go out and chase down another chicken and shake a few more out of 'em."

My smirk falls as soon as an odd chaotic expression washes Bobby's face. I only have time enough to identify the irritation before he is looking down into the pan on the stove once again. He glares at its contents, biting his tongue I suppose.

"Plates in there," he finally comments, gesturing with the utensil grasped in his hand. I rise and cross to the cupboards next to the sink and pull out a couple plates. With my free left hand I poke through to find what drawer holds silverware and scoop up forks. Neither of us has spoken as we go about our tasks. On the way back to the table I hand the plates to Bobby. He accepts them with a brief nod of the head and an even shorter glance at me.

'So what you think?" Bobby questions. Looking up from the table I find his eyes are now focused out the window that faces off in the direction of the junkyard.

"Ain't gonna be a walk in the park. But it'll get done, one way or another. Just you wait."

"Wouldn't wager against it," Bobby offers, approaching the table and handing me one of the two heaping plate of eggs. The other he sets at the head seat and slides in the chair there.

"Good because you'd lose your shirt," I throw back, devouring my food simultaneously.

"I know a bad bet when I see one. Stay away from 'em like the plague," he responds and digs into his own eggs. Quiet falls between us. It's not truly tense, more like two men sluggish from lack of sleep and too much on their minds to communicate with one another.

"Cool if I work on the Impala out there? It's gonna take couple weeks," I finally speak. Then scrape up the last bite of my eggs into my mouth.

"Sure thing. Borrow whatever tools you need. Feel free to scavenge parts from what's out there."

"I'll find a way to pay you back, Bobby," I state softly, looking him in the eye.

"No need." He stands up from the table and collects both of our plates.

"I can do some work around here for you or some tow jobs."

"Like I said. There's no need. I owed it." The words escape him with a tone of finality to them. I'm certainly not a rocket scientist, but I can tell when not to push a man like Bobby. Placing the plates in the sink he twists away from me and turns on the faucet. He busies himself with washing the dishes. I take the opportunity to steal away, slipping from the kitchen into the hallway. A few seconds later I find myself at the top of the stairs, listening. The doorway to my right is the room that Sam is staying in. Through the closed door I can just make out the faint sounds of movement. It's not surprising to find him unable to sleep, but I just wanted to check before asking this favor of Bobby. Quietly I descend the stairs and make my way back into the kitchen.

"Sam still asleep?" Bobby asks despite the fact he knows well enough that Sammy, at best, only got some vague form of fitful sleep.

"Nope. Probably be down for some of those eggs soon."

"Got plenty!" Bobby replies simply.

"I need to pick up some supplies. Cool if I borrow your truck?"

"Keys are there on the table."

"I'll be back in a while!" I tell him, grabbing the keys and rushing out the door. I need to be long gone before Sam makes his way downstairs. I don't need his unending interrogation right now. I have to do this alone.

The sun is just now breaching the sky, melting the very edges of that haunting gray into blue. Climbing in the truck and starting the engine I am gripped with guilt. I just lied to Bobby in the blink of the eye, despite everything he is doing for us, and the destination of my trip will most likely not be something I will share with Sammy. It's not like I haven't lied to him before, but it's spilled over now into different territory. I'm keeping secrets that affect both of us. But there's no other way. I have to do it this way.

I click on the radio and let the music chase the thoughts from my head. I focus on the road, crossing the miles as fast as the limits of the truck will allow me. A hundred miles later I pull into the parking lot of the small brick post office. Cutting the engine I train my eyes on the rearview mirror. The lot where I sit is not but a few blocks from the hospital we were flown to that night. I jerk my gaze away as bile threatens to rise out of me.

_I'm so tired. My body aches under its own weight, my mind is overloaded, and both beg for a sliver of relief._

Only two other cars occupy the lot and there is no one is sight. I lower my forehead until it meets my arms that are now crossed over the steering wheel. I close my eyes and float in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness for a moment. The sedated sensation of it is blissful, but after a few more heartbeats I raise my head and exit the car.

_Now or never._

That's rapidly becoming my new mantra. I feel like if I stop I'll never get started again. My strides towards the doorway of the building shorten the closer I get. My heart drags them down, adding the weight of yet another ending lying ahead of me.

_The contents of the post office box will be the last thing he ever left me._

I force my strides to length and increase my progress twofold. The list of hours printed out on the door in white lettering tells me that they have just opened. Grateful for the privacy that brings me I pull open the door and step inside. The interior is old and dim, showing the age of the building. To the right is the service desk and a small sign to the left directs me to the post office boxes. I follow the sign and find the rows of boxes tucked away in a far corner. My eyes scan the numbers, searching for the one I need.

_The far end and very bottom._

I find myself crouched down in front of the business size box before I even realize I am in motion again. I twist briefly, looking back over my shoulder, ensuring I am alone, then reach out and touch my fingertips to the combination lock. The dial seems to move to the proper locations without me thinking about it. The last one clicks in place and I slowly pull back the box's door.

Inside sit two packages, huge envelopes stuffed to the point of busting. I tug them out into my hands and click the box closed once again. In the next breath it seems I am climbing back into the cab of the truck. I set the packages on the passenger seat and start the engine. After a final glance at the post office I put the truck in gear and drive away.

A piece of me must be clued into where I am headed because I am driving purposefully, confident in my turns and lane changes. My eyes focus out over the hood into the morning sunlight although my heart pleads for me to look to the other seat.

_Not yet._

The building lined streets had faded into roads lines with fields. My hands turn the wheel left, directing the truck off the paved road onto the dirt. A long narrow road winds its way along an aged fence. I press down on the brake slowly and Bobby's truck glides to a stop. For a handful of heartbeats I look out across the land laid out before me. The fields here go on forever, on out to meet the horizon. Sprawling farmland that claims a single barn and house. They sit hallway between me and the horizon.

_There are no witnesses in this place._

My gaze finally drifts to the passenger seat and I reach over and pick up the envelope that sits on top. I stand it up against the steering wheel and undo the clasp. It's top sits opened in front of me for a heartbeat before I reach inside and pull out the single item inside.

My heart rises into my throat and I have to bite down on my lip to keep the moisture creeping into my eyes at bay.

I trickle my fingers over the object that I now hold in my grasp. It is familiar and strange in the same time. The leather is newer and still silky to the touch, but the binding is broken in.

I open the cover and read the opening words in black ink in my father's print.

_September 10, 2005 Jericho, California_

_This journal is now my only companion. It's too dangerous to involve anyone else on this road I'm barreling down anymore. This is the second journal I've kept. The first I have entrusted to Dean. And I know he will do me proud by it._

_To Be Continued…_


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